


Bleeding

by oninoshirosaki



Series: Love Is... [3]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oninoshirosaki/pseuds/oninoshirosaki





	Bleeding

This is how I'll remember it.

His lips stretched pale and thin, wrapped tight like a clenched fist around my cock, blood and spit trickling from the corners of his lovely mouth.

His eyes screwed shut so damn tight - like when something bad happens and you're stupidly hoping that if you don't look at it long enough, it's bound to go away - in a fashion that's just _got_ to hurt. It makes me wanna pry them open - my fingers the crowbar, his eyes the jammed elevator doors. Maybe tape his lashes to his brows.

If I cut off his eyelids, would he see me? Would he _look_ at me - _acknowledge **me?**_

I'll remember caressing the bruise on his cheek - gentle like the innocent kiss of an adoring child, brutal like the blow which engendered such a bruise (the hundredth, maybe thousandth, amongst too damn many) in the first place - and the feel of my own cock through his skin.

The cut beneath his left eye which won't stop bleeding - it makes him look like he's weeping tears of blood - and the way my thumb streaks crimson along his face like warpaint. 

The marble floor is cold like a corpse beneath the soles of my feet. _Unforgiving_ against his bare knees, I'm certain. Sometimes, it's carpet - which, for him, I'm sure is no more comfortable. Kneel in the same spot long enough, and even the most delicate of fibers would inevitably burn your skin. 

My hand tangles in his hair, whip-calloused fingers in an ocean of mercury - so beautiful for the way he wears it, so ugly for _why._ I hear the sounds which fall from my lips - _insults, commands, urges, moans of pleasure_ \- in a voice that's mine, yet not at all my own.

I think about the past and things I don't _want_ to remember, but always _do._ My fingers curl into his scalp, tearing silver off in strands - _snapsnapsnap_ \- like ripping powder soft wings off an angel's back. I can feel the blood seeping beneath my nails, as palpable as the hot roof of his mouth against the head of my cock.

I think about how much I hate that damn hair, wish again and again for that time when there was much less of it and he was solely _mine._

Squalo was fourteen when he first found his Purpose.

 _I_ was fourteen when I first learned what agony feels like.

\--

This is how I'll remember it. 

His body is a canvas painted black and blue and _redredred._

Each part of me - _nails, teeth, feet, fists_ \- is a tool with which I create this masterpiece.

Squalo is most beautiful when he's bent over my desk (sometimes on all fours, sometimes on the floor of my room before we make it to the bed), deliciously spread wide open for me and gloriously bathed in his own blood.

There is no feeling in this world that rivals the maddening sensations spiking through my veins like adrenaline when I watch myself enter him, disappear inside him. The tremble of his flesh beneath my palms, his pallid skin denting and breaking beneath the pressure of my fingers.

I love the sweat that rolls off his slender frame, that mingles with the blood, turns sanguine into pale pink. He is salt and copper beneath my agile tongue, pulse racing against heartbeat below the stab of my teeth.

Sometimes, I like to have him face me, writhing beneath me like an angry serpent. Every inch of him is so _sensitive_ \- the barest touch sends him bucking and moaning like a cheap whore from some back alley in Milan. Suck on the skin between his neck and clavicle, and he gasps as if in desperate need of air. Bite the delicate cap of his shoulder, and his nails tear the skin from my back. The smallest of brushes against his erect nipple, and he's wet against my palm.

He is bones and temper, blood and insolence, and _so. fucking. **beautiful.**_

With every thrust, every caress, every bite, every wound, I want to burn myself into his body - like a scar that won't heal, like a tattoo he can't laser off - until he sees _me,_ and _only_ me.

Would he see me if I dyed my hair black? Would he see me if my eyes were red instead of brown? How many different ways should I touch him before he takes notice? How often should I say _I love you_ before he hears? When will I ever be good enough?

_When will I ever be **enough?**_

I'll remember the scent of his sweat, his blood on my tongue, his slick heat around my aching cock. I'll remember screaming his name into his ear when I come.

He screams the wrong name into mine.

\--

This is how I'll remember it.

The taste of red, guilt heavy like a hand crushing my skull; the air in my bedroom thick with the musk of sex, tension like the final moments before the blade of a guillotine falls.

Lines upon lines adorning his back which form meandering, meaningless patterns - like an abstract painting pretentious assholes like to call _art._ His flesh, the paper - _the napkin, a hastily torn notebook page, the sand_ \- upon which my whip draws the map. I watch the scars, new upon old, the blood and semen leaking from the cleft of his ass, trailing down his inner thighs.

Disgust writes like a red marker across my face, morbid fascination dances in my eyes. Part of me wants to puke my fucking guts out, like some stupid teenager bragging about his iron stomach, yet can't hold _one fucking drink._ Part of me wants to douse those wounds in alcohol, set a lit match to it and watch the flesh melt off his spine.

There is a voice inside my head that says, _**You** did this,_ like the chime of a tower clock, like the cadence of a platoon's footsteps beating heavy against the ground. Here is my masterpiece, _perfected._

I am sick and triumphant all at once. I'll remember wondering - more often these days, every time I feel myself eroding, dying, breathing, fucking _living_ \- how much of this is me pretending to be Xanxus, and how much is just _me?_

My whip lies discarded on the bed - white sheets stained crimson like blood on a rose. Every laceration - _bruise, blister, bite mark_ \- draws me in like a Siren's call. My hand hovers over his wounded back, longing to touch, yet hesitant, like wishing to pet a rabbit made out of snow.

 _I_ did this. 

Tactile contact makes his body jolt like he's been scalded, brings forth a pained hiss from his cracked lips. It's enough to make my half-tumescent cock hard again. _**I** did this._ _I_ caused his pain and -

"I'm sorry."

It's only a half-truth. I'm sorry for a lot of things as far as Squalo's concerned, I'm only partially sorry I did _this._

I'll remember him lashing out at me, the burn of betrayal sparking sudden life into his gray eyes, the feel of his fist connecting with my nose - breaking bone, snapping cartilage. My blood on his knuckles, _his_ blood all over the bed, the floor, this room, and _us._

 _"Fuck you!!!"_ he howls like an aggrieved man who's just been wrongfully convicted, like a parent forced to watch his child burn; and I can see the illusion fall apart in his irises, bricks against glass houses.

I'll remember the violent slam of the door, the sight of his bloodied back imprinted on my corneas, long after he's left the room. I'll remember the line between charade and reality blurring until it's erased completely. And there is nothing I can do but laugh so damn _hard,_ I can't stop crying at my own folly.

Xanxus would have never said, _"I'm sorry."_


End file.
